We won last night, which was good. I got to see how badly Coop got screwed by the league team-balancing reshuffling, which was not so good. He was moved from a strongish team to, well, whatever a gaggle of people in yellow shirts is; if you were willing to overlook the fact that they were all wearing the same colour shirts, it would be easy to believe that none of his team had ever spoken to each other before the first pull.
It’s painfully easy to see this from the sideline, but you can really, really tell the difference between a team that has a plan and a bunch of people who don’t.
My plan didn’t involve laying out on the astroturf as much as I did, which I’m why I’m currently having a difficult discussion with a very angry, intractable left leg about our long-term relationship. It goes something like this:
“I hate you.”
“I hate you. I want advil.”
“I hate you. I need a bandage. I need a god-damned skin graft, I hate you!”
“Just shut up!”
“C’mon, Advil? Pretty-please?”
“Ok, here’s some Advil. Now willl you quiet down and stop leaking skin fluid all over my pants?”
“No. By the way, I hate you.”
So temperamental, so petty. I’ve known my left leg for decades. What’s eight inches of bleeding rug-burn between friends?